


And We Will Wear Masks

by VultureCat



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pining, Romance, Undercover Mission, Violence, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VultureCat/pseuds/VultureCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kirk infiltrates a nefarious criminal organization, the last thing he expects is to actually like his assigned partner-in-crime, Spock. </p><p>Or, an Undercover Spy AU where Kirk and Spock fall for each other despite the odds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Wait for it. Five... Four...."

"I'm out!" Kirk yells, as he plummets out of the air-locked door, leaving behind a horde of angry looking henchmen with way too much ammunition. The sudden rush of cold air around him jolts him hyper-alert and causes an intense ringing in his ears. His face feels like it’s being peeled back like he’s a little pug with floppy cheeks in the wind. Fucking Sulu. Just couldn’t find another way out.

"You'll be in free-fall for 3 more seconds. Then pull your emergency chute. The landing might be a little bumpy since you jumped early," Sulu's voice cackles good-naturedly in his earpiece.

"I can hear your amusement loud and clear, Sulu. I hope you know I resent it!" Kirk screams over the deafening sound of him tearing through the sky at 30 MPH.

His speech is garbled over the fall and in 3 more seconds, he pulls. (His internal clock is flawless, one tiny aspect he truly does appreciate about himself.) A tiny little safety parachute billows out above him, and a flat-top aircraft appears suddenly under him, holding its position. He pulls the release cord and slams into the plane hard, barely grabbing onto a handhold. A second later, someone unseals the hatch and pulls him inside by his collar.

Kirk gets shunted to the floor. His heart’s beating so fast he can barely breathe – but he coaches himself down. He isn’t as used to heights as he is to rapid gunfire littering his vision or being trapped in tiny, enclosed spaces. It just happens less often. He takes quick, shuddery inhales and gives himself a once-over in the mirror propped up against the wall to check for any broken bones or bullet holes. (He walked around Madrid for over seven hours once before a passer-by pointed out a bullet lodged in his bicep. Never can be too precautious when jam-packed with adrenaline.) No broken bones, his money-maker flawless save for some grime on his cheeks and all his limbs moveable despite the stab wound in leg.

Bones is there in a second. He runs to Kirk, almost tripping himself over his medic equipment in the process, swearing with that Southern accent of his. Kirk snorts, laughing a little as Bones starts pulling things out of his bag.

“Just a stab wound, Bones. I’m fine. Slow down before you trip and impale yourself on something. That’ll be trouble – my first aid training is limited!”

“Just watch, kid. One day you’re gonna be bleeding out and I’m gonna be takin’ my sweet, sweet time. See how much you appreciate me then,” Bone scoffs, wrapping the bandage horrendously tight around his stab wound. A deep red blossoms up almost immediately from under the bandage.

“Bones you can’t deny your love for me. ‘M your best friend,” Kirk slurs. His mouth still feels a little stretchy from the high speed fall.

“My best friend? Kid if you weren’t worth so dang much to the higher ups I would strangle you with my own two hands,” Bones retorts, but the smile in his eyes betrays his words.

Kirk grins, rolling his eyes and shuts up for the rest of the ride, too exhausted to quip with Bones – and he sounds stupid when he talks. Bones seems to understand and shuffles back toward the opposite wall, sitting down while keeping an eye on Kirk. Kirk lays his head back against the cool, steel wall and focuses on the aircraft hum beneath him, a loud, steady sound that lulls him peacefully.

 

* * *

 

 

“Congrats on the big win, Jim,” Sulu beams at him from his desk in the support department. Kirk glares at him, knocks over one of the bobble-heads placed precariously on top of his monitor, and smiles back with all his teeth. It’s nice to see Sulu at his desk instead of hearing him in his earpiece. It reminds him that he’s not all alone in his missions.

He chats with Sulu a bit, catching up over their lives, though Jim’s is much less dramatic, despite being an agent. Sulu gushes about his crush on the boy-genius in the tech department, Chekov or something. Well, he won’t admit it but his tone and his amazement at all the wonders he does for his system is a tell-all. Jim teases him for a couple minutes before going back on his way to meet Pike.

He’s been itching to get back into the field ever since his last mission (a total success, despite the fact that he had to jump off a 50 storey building) and Pike’s finally called him to his office. The overly glossy, glass prison of a building that the he operates from. He swears he’s seen three window cleaners on his walk to Pike’s office.

Once he reaches the frosted glass door with the little plaque that says, “Christopher Pike,” he bursts in with no introduction and sits himself on the comfy armchair facing Pike’s desk. He’s always had a bit of a father-son relationship with the man and respects him greatly (though he’s loath to admit it.)

“Hello, Jim. Must I remind you there is proper protocol when entering someone’s office? I have a secretary for a reason, you know,” Pike chastises him half-heartedly, putting away his papers to focus his eyes on Kirk.

“Well in your phone call you said afternoon, and look at that! It’s the afternoon. So what brings me here?” Jim says, grinning. He’s missed Pike. Doesn’t see him enough and his pride’s too strong to make up excuses to see him.

“You did a great job last mission, Jim. This is just your new mission brief. It’s going to be a long, undercover one, so I thought it’d be nice if I got to personally tell you about it,” Pike smiles at him. Kirk has known him long enough that his smiles aren’t very reassuring at all anymore.

“What kind of undercover mission…?” Kirk asks, giving him a pointed look.

“You’ll be working in a criminal organization as hired help – an expert sniper, I think we sold you as. Along with all of your other skills, of course. The leader’s name is Khan. He’s someone we’ve been trying to tie down for years, but his name is never legally or politically related to any of his crimes. We’re hoping you can steal their database of information.”

“So the man’s hard to catch. Okay. How long?” Kirk prods. He knows this mission must mean something, if Pike himself has to introduce it to him.

“We estimate a month, maybe two at the least. But you’ll have to lie low for the next couple of months after the assignment.”

Kirk doesn’t mind gathering intel, recon, enemy take downs and all that gruesome stuff, but undercover missions areso long and he almost always loses something of himself in them. But he sighs. He’s a tool to them- they pay him and use him how they like. Just another weapon in their arsenal.

“Okay, I’ll do it. Not like I have a choice, right?” He furrows his brow, voice weary. “Just remember the next time we get a recon mission in the Caribbean, I’m first choice, okay?”

“Sure. We’ll give you plenty of vacation time after the assignment. Just head down to tech and have Chekov look at you. He’s assigned to your case,” Pike gives him a muted nod, a dismissal.

He’s not mad at Pike or anything. He knows he doesn’t designate all the missions. He has too much bullshit administrative stuff to even touch the operations, mostly. (Though he does chip in to give Kirk priority sometimes. Kirk’s always found it nice to be teacher’s pet.)

Kirk heads down to the tech quarters – situated in the basement of the building, where they can test explosives and such without causing too much of a ruckus. Sulu complains often, though, about how he can feel the floor rumble every time Chekov’s testing his new experimental equipment. Then he puts Kirk on pause while he stomps down there to complain, which is obviously an excuse to pester his little whiz kid.

Kirk misses that kind of mindless, puppy-love that he used to partake in, back when he was training in the building too. But everything’s different now as a field agent. No time, no energy to pursue those kind of innocent things.

When he gets down there, Chekov’s chipper as always, flitting around him to measure and scribble things down in a notepad.

“You’ll need to dress differently, Mr. Kirk, as your background should match your equipment. You vill receive the information in a package soon,” Chekov smiles as he explains, then hands Kirk a heavy briefcase, most likely containing his  *******  newly cleaned Glock, a couple weapons and a new earpiece.

“Thanks, Chekov. Good work, as always.”

Just as Kirk turns to leave, Chekov stops him. “Ah – wait, Mr. Kirk, are you going to be seeing Hikaru before you leave?”

Jim smirks. Hikaru, huh. Chekov’s cheeks are a dusty pink and Kirk feels bad for the poor, love-bugged guy.

“Sure, I’ll see him.”

“Can you bring up this tin of cranberry cookies to him? They’re my grandmother’s recipe. You can have one too if you like! Last time Hikaru came down he stepped on my mini-landmine and though it wasn’t active it took me three hours to un-wire it for safety. A little sorry gift,” Chekov clarifies embarrassedly, handing him a hefty tin.

Knowing Sulu, he probably stepped on it on purpose just to spend more time with Chekov. Dorks. Kirk throws the tin on Sulu’s desk, chuckling as Sulu jumps a little, surprised by the intrusion. He heads home soon after, hailing down a taxi, unperturbed by the relative congestion on the road. His mind races with the possible outcomes of such a long undercover mission, but he snaps out of it, choosing to watch some reruns on TV and make himself stir-fry instead.


	2. Chapter 2

The temperature is well below chilly today in Moscow, Kirk thinks as he pulls up the fur of his coat, hiding his neck under the warmth. A line of men are standing in the compound, all dressed in sleek suits. Kirk thinks he’s best dressed, despite being the smallest one there. He’s always loved to play dress up – Why not charge it to the corporate bill?

He should have gotten a coffee on the train. The train rumbled into Moscow at 6AM this morning, the screech of the track waking Kirk out of his light slumber. Kirk doesn’t hate long train rides – he rather enjoys them. And from the look of the mission brief, it is the most widely used mode of transportation when travelling between countries in northern Europe, so that’s a plus.

Between a yawn, a man with a huge beard mumbles out partner assignments and everyone begins to sort themselves. They are given burner phones for communication and are told to reconvene later on that day. Kirk shuffles into the corner, burner phone clutched in hand and eyes searching for this “Spock” that is to be his partner. It’s slightly odd to be partnered up, but the bearded man had talked of accountability and teamwork when pairing everyone up, so Kirk shrugs and gets a move on.

A man with pitch black hair, a severe hair cut and piercing dark eyes approaches him with his hand out. Kirk takes it in stride and introduces himself, “Kirk.” He almost looks familiar – he can’t quite put his finger on it, but he could be one of the thugs Kirk regularly beats up. Could be anyone.

The man nods and says, “My name is Spock.”

Kirk isn’t going to forget that name. Spock sounds like a moniker, a short form or some kind of blatant lie. Kirk thinks about the fake name he was given and shrugs. Nobody knows who he is at any rate. He’s held a low profile for the past few years – no damage done there.

“I guess we’re going to head over to the hotel near the compound?” Kirk starts walking towards the exit, following the 12 other men heading in that direction.

“That is agreeable.”

Spock speaks strangely, as if each word has to be rolled around in his mouth before he spits it out icily and devoid of feeling. Kirk guesses it’s the job – you pick up some peculiar habits when constantly on edge.

The hotel they arrive at after a short drive is quaint, but grand. A 6 story building, dressed in gaudy antique furniture from top to bottom. It is a look. The front desk avoids their eyes while checking them in, as if they already know their business caters to the world’s bottom feeders. Kirk feels at home in this atmosphere. 

The woman hands them both room keys – they’re on the fifth floor, rooms adjacent to each other and connected by a door that locks on both sides. Kirk and Spock make their way, lumbering up the stairs in silence. There’s no elevator, but that is to be expected. It’s an old, historic building, miles from Moscow’s city centre, situated near the icy confines of Khan’s compound.

“See you in the morning,” Kirk says before entering his room. Spock gives him a dark look and a nod before disappearing into his own quarters.

Something about Spock unnerves him, and he’s only met the man for a day. Either his silence, which isn’t unusual – so it can’t be that. Perhaps his demeanor? The way Spock looks at him? It isn’t sizing up an opponent. His gaze feels more like a predator hunting prey. If Kirk is being honest, it’s attractive. He hasn’t had a lay since he landed in the US, but Spock is certainly one of his definitive types.

Dark hair, wide shoulders and mysterious. Kirk is a harlequin romance character at the very least. Spock fits the bill, and Kirk has to continuously remind himself this is a long-term mission. He can’t just screw his partner and leave. (As much as it seems like he might want to.)

Kirk checks the room for bugs, combing through the novels stuffed into the brandy-coloured bookcase and looking under the sink. Satisfied, Kirk activates his earpiece and lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Sulu, you there?” Kirk asks.

“Morning Kirk, it’s early over here but I’m up and at ‘em.”

“Good, good. Your lazy ass usually never coordinates with my long-term missions,” Kirk grins and scoffs.

“Well I’m practically sleeping on my chair over here. Your mission is high priority, Kirk. Haven’t seen one like this in a while. How are you doing over there? Stay alert.”

Kirk briefs Sulu about his day – Spock, the bearded man, their hotel, where the compound is situated and its surroundings. It feels good, to unwind, but this isn’t going to happen often. Kirk knows talking on his earpiece is a security risk – easy to get caught, easy to be tapped – even with Chekov’s “superior Russian engineering.”

He coordinates another date to touch base with Sulu and places the ear piece back in the package and hides it in the floor of his room.

Kirk has always hated stand-by time. Downtime gets him in his head, and with regular missions he can just go out, wreak havoc and be back by bedtime. Getting fidgety in his room, Kirk paces back and forth, checking all his weapons, before flopping down on his bed, arms spread out.

A knock comes on the door. _Tap-tap._

“I heard an alarming noise come from your room,” Spock’s voice carries through the door, though muffled it is devoid of emotion as ever. “Are you alright?”

Kirk suppresses the urge to chuckle. Just goes to show how thin the walls are in this place – he can’t even go stir crazy without alerting his partner.

Kirk walks over to the door and unlocks it, grimacing at the fact that there is no eyehole. Trust can be a difficult thing to foster, but Kirk opens it anyway.

“I’m alright,” Kirk says, peering into the doorway. Spock looks like not a hair on his head has moved, though Kirk can get a better look at his chest with his coat off. He looks good. Like he can take out a squadron of military personnel with his bare hands. Kirk should stop looking. “Thanks for checking.”

“Good,” Spock says. Spock turns, presumably to go back to doing whatever it was guys like Spock did between murder and theft, but hesitates.

“Do you want to come in for a drink? Their bar is well stocked and I prefer not to drink alone.” Kirk can’t stop himself from blurting it out.

“I... was going to retire until the morning,” Spock pauses. “But that is agreeable. I will join you for a drink.”

Kirk can’t help but be surprised. It isn’t exactly smart to socialize with Khan’s hired help, but something about Spock makes him reckless. He waves the feeling off, chalking up his invitation as a way to get some inside knowledge. He steps out of the doorway and Spock enters, choosing to seat himself on one of the deep red armchairs.

“What would you like to drink?” Kirk asks, moving to the bar and dropping a couple ice cubes into his glass.

“Whiskey, please,” Spock returns.

Kirk moves to pour it, and he immediately feels Spock’s heavy gaze on his back. Let him look all he likes – the man barely talks, after all.

“So, do you play chess? There’s an old set under the table,” Kirk starts, after sitting down and sipping on his scotch.

“Affirmative. I have played chess in the past. Would you like to partake in a game at this time?”

Kirk nods and Spock reaches down to grab the set and lays it out.

Spock can play chess. Not only does he play – Kirk hasn’t been this intrigued by a chess match in a long time. His entire childhood he had been touted as a child prodigy, chess being his forte. Nothing ever came of it – he’d refused to attend any chess tournaments after his mother passed, but he still plays occasionally with Sulu.

Thirty minutes pass in a flash, and Spock has Kirk in checkmate.

“How does a guy like you get into the killing business, hm?” Kirk grins, and lets Spock’s rook knock his king over. It was close. “Rematch?”

“I would not regard this as a ‘killing’ business.” Spock says, looking up at Kirk. “And I think a rematch is in order.”

“And how is that?” Kirk returns. He sets up the toppled over pieces and rethinks his strategy. Spock is smart, dreadfully so.

“It is a job that concerns protection. Killing is simply the aftermath – an aftermath that can be skillfully avoided.” Spock picks up a pawn and plots it down on the board.

Kirk scoffs. He’s had to kill people before – and the amount is in the double digits. Maybe triple – he doesn’t keep track. (Agents have cracked before.)

“We don’t have a choice. Murder is our job description, if you haven’t realized,” Kirk retorts.

“It is, yet it isn’t always the right consequence,” Spock says, eyes unmoving from Kirk’s face. Kirk feels slightly uncomfortable, the room is suddenly smaller than he’d originally realized. Guilt doesn’t take him often – but he always feels horrible when it does.  

“It really isn’t,” Kirk says, finally.

Silence falls upon them, and the two begin to battle it out in a game of minds. Kirk wins this time and he can’t help but crack a little bit of a grin. Spock seems amused as well. The amicable mood lasts for only a moment, and Kirk remembers his mission – his sole reason for being in an otherwise uninhabitable, truly cold country.

 “I’m... going to go to bed for the night. Feel free to finish your drink before you leave,” Kirk says, heading for the bathroom.

Spock’s drink is barely touched – his finger runs across the edge of the cup, then he clutches the glass and downs it all in one gulp. Kirk can practically feel the burn. Spock lingers, looking as if he’s trying to decide what to say.

“Thank you for the chess game. You were a formidable opponent. I will speak to you in the morning,” Spock gives a courteous goodbye and leaves through the door connecting their rooms.

Kirk locks the door right after he leaves. Hatred is the feeling Kirk should have toward Russian mobsters affiliated with Khan, but he can’t quite put his finger on how he feels about Spock. He doesn’t seem to be the archetypal meathead most of them are, though he doesn’t know him well yet. Mind hazy and unclear, Kirk peels off his clothes and heads to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning comes too quickly, and Kirk feels the slight twinge of a headache. He meets up with Spock outside their rooms and they look over their burner phones. Coordinates and a patrol schedule appear on the phones.

“Should be a clear day. Not much to look out for,” Kirk says in passing.

They both grab their equipment and head down to a taxi.

“Yes,” Spock answers. “An easy shift.”

Kirk isn’t so sure about that, but he doesn’t argue with his logic. The car ride is a silent affair, the poorly maintained road jostling them side to side serves as the white noise Kirk needs today. They’re greeted by two men Kirk met yesterday who hand them a couple bags and tell them to keep their phones on. The two of them climb up a small watch tower, connected to the main wall by a small tunnel and set up their equipment. It’s a long watch from here, and Kirk still feels uncomfortable, if slightly attracted, to the man. 

The day rolls by lazily with Kirk paying as much attention as he can afford to the dusty atmosphere, and all other attention directed toward his partner. Spock can stand so still Kirk is on the fence about whether or not he has lungs. Or bodily needs. (Kirk would fulfill at least one of those – for sure.)

It’s almost a good thing he can’t talk to Sulu regularly. All he would do is blab about Spock, for reasons completely unrelated to the mission. So he keeps to himself, and sets his eyes on the ground below. 

 

A pin is unlocked somewhere, the sound barely within hearing range, but Kirk hits the floor as fast as he can, body reacting before his mind can from muscle memory. Smoke billows out everywhere, fast moving and foul-smelling. The milky white of the smoke rings out against the dark backdrop of the night. It’s been 8 hours since the start of their shift and Spock is nowhere to be seen. Kirk rips a piece of his shirt off and ties it around his face. Kirk doesn’t want to risk inhaling it. There’s tangos on his left, right and back. Seems like a direct attack on the wall. 

Kirk starts to fight back, throwing jabs, shooting (trying for legs, arms, anything not absolutely vital) and taking men down despite them being twice his size. He feels the blood course through his veins and hopes it never has to spill out – not now, after all. He’s a day into his assignment. There could be forty men on this wall. Kirk feels like it’s unending.

Eventually, the smoke parts and behind it reveals a line of men, passed out or dead – Kirk can’t tell. He follows it, looking around for any stragglers. Kirk shuffles quietly (or as quietly as he can, somewhere along the way he sustained a bullet wound in his leg – only noticing because of his limp.) 

At the end of the section of the wall, he finds Spock, panting hard, one hand clutching the throat of a burly looking man. 

“This one is the leader,” Spock grunts out. His face is bloody and Kirk twinges just looking at him.

“We need to question him,” Kirk says, still on alert. Anyone could come up. This attack was not from the outside, he notes. 

“Yes,” Spock says slowly. “I will take him down and interrogate him.”

The man’s eyes are wild, darting around as if to look for an escape route. There is none. Spock’s grip is steel and some time down the line the man realizes it.

“I can come with – I’ll patch some guys to come and clean this shit up. They’re lucky we could take this many fuckers at once.”

“You need to find medical assistance,” Spock says seriously, eyes travelling to the bloodied part of Kirk’s pants. “I will take him down myself.”

Kirk winces. The wound’s beginning to hurt more now, but that’s how it always is. Pain doesn’t appear at first when you’re carried away. 

“Alright,” Kirk relents. “I’ll meet you down there.” 

Spock nods and drags the man down by his neck, gun pressed to the small of his back. 

 

Kirk is all patched up after the scuffle. His leg still hurts like a bitch, but he’s had worse. Way worse. Worse to the point where Bones filed an HR complaint about the fact that Kirk was still working. (Didn’t go through – agents are priceless when on the field, at home, not so much.)

Kirk sits in one of the rooms of the compound. It looks like a little makeshift infirmary in a storage room, shelves of medical supplies stacked up against cold, grey walls. It’s quiet now, the only remnant of the fight being his sticky blood stained shoes.

Kirk sighs and makes his way to the room some barnacle-brained henchman took five minutes to tell him directions to.  _ Occupational hazards _ , Kirk thinks as he tries to hide his limp.

The sounds of coarse screaming greet Kirk’s ears before he even turns the last corner. He picks up his pace and bangs on the door to the room. 

“Spock? You in there?” Kirk says.

The door opens – it’s a bare bones room, furnished with just a chair and some equipment (ropes, whips, pliers, scissors, hammers; the whole shebang.) Spock stands at one side of the room with another man flanking his side. The hostage is on the other side, tied up in a chair. 

Kirk can feel the hairs on his skin bristle and stand. He’s never liked torture. He can feel the fear radiating from the tied-up man’s eyes. 

 

Spock is nonchalant about the whole process – capture, torment, suffering. It is not hard to make a man crack under pressure (or under a saw-blade.) He is simply logically opposed to killing. There is no reason to vanquish a man’s existence for personal reasons when there is another option. 

Spock cleans the tools in the room, preferring freshly wiped down sterile blades and pliers. He thinks back to the man, with his unkempt blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He catches himself staring at Kirk often. Kirk is different; Spock can sense it in the way he carries himself. He isn’t the irrational henchman Spock so often meets on these missions. He supposes he should be glad, to have a partner that holds certain wit – but it just makes him feel uneasy. Somewhere inside, he wishes he met Kirk under a different set of circumstances. Spock can easily see him fitting into his both mundane yet untamed life. 

Spock is caught up in his thoughts when the door bursts open, revealing Kirk panting. He almost loses his breath, seeing Kirk in the flesh again. In some way, Spock is irretrievably attracted to the man. His impossibly blue eyes seem to glisten in the dim incandescent lighting, a feat Spock cannot understand. His porcelain skin is marred by battle wounds, cuts and scrapes. Spock grimaces, unable to hold back his displeasure in seeing Kirk’s injuries, eyes landing on the patched up portion of Kirk’s leg. Kirk notices, staring up into his eyes. 

Spock turns back to his cleaning and says, “Kirk, perhaps you should concentrate on recovery as you have a bullet wound.”

“No chance. I want to know where those guys came from.” Kirk’s eyes are now on the squirming hostage in the room. He’s tied up and gagged. Spock is going to work on him shortly. Oddly, Spock does not want Kirk to be present when he performs. Kirk shuffles into the room, placing himself in the corner opposite Spock. Another man is present as well, gun in his holster with eyes on the hostage. Spock decides not to argue further, seeing as it may not be of any use.

“That is acceptable. I will begin to question him shortly,” Spock explains, stepping closer to the man. He struggles against his binds and coughs as Spock rips the gag out of his mouth.

“Fuck off,” the man spits. “I’m not telling you nothing.”

Spock shrugs and settles into his familiar routine. A nerve pinch to the neck and the man is limp – but his senses remain alert and aware. He can feel, speak, but cannot lash out. It is the simplest way, the way Spock has always done it.

The man is garbling, practically incoherent by the time Spock is done. Only after does Spock notice Kirk shaking lightly in the corner, fists drawn into themselves and eyes wide as saucers staring straight ahead. An unusual reaction for a man practically defending murder last night.  

“We should report this to the higher-ups,” Spock says, looking down. He feels guilty, almost. But it’s his job. 

“Yeah. We should,” Kirk says, seemingly looking into space (nonetheless, Spock can tell he’s staring through his soul.) 

Spock is in the middle of cleaning off his equipment when he hears hollering down the hallway. Kirk hears it at the exact same time – the two of them flank each other and pull out their pistols, pointing them at the door. A second later, the door lock is rattled but left unopened. 

A huge  _ boom _ resounds through the whole compound and the two are blown back, dust left in their stead. Someone just shot through the doorknob.

“What the fuck,” Kirk says as he scrambles to his feet. Spock is at his side straight away. 

The man who blew the door open kicks it wide and steps inside, eyes immediately on his presumable teammate who is passed out from Spock’s punches. 

“Sorry pals, just here to clean up.” The man sneers and lunges at Kirk. Kirk tries to steady himself, but winces as the man knees into his bullet wound. The two stumble and fall. 

A bullet shoots past Spock’s ear, so close he can hear the air split as it flies. He fires a couple shots and two of them find their way into the second man’s legs. The man swears as he falls. 

Two more men in the hallway – Spock can hear their footsteps, but the man on top of Kirk smashes a couple punches into his head and wraps his hands around Kirk’s windpipes. Spock can hear Kirk’s wheezes, and for some reason they make him want to tear the man apart.

Spock grabs the man by the cuff of his jacket and throws him against the wall. His head makes a nasty sound, akin to the way a dry leaf makes when you step on it.  _ Crunch. _

Kirk is on the floor, one hand clutched around his neck and one hand pushing himself back up. He spits some blood out on the floor and aims his pistol.  _ Bang. Bang.  _

The last two men are downed, yowling on the floor from their bullet wounds. Blood, flesh matter and bodies dot the compound, but Spock’s eyes are solely on Kirk. His wound is bleeding through the bandages, garnet spilling down his leg. His throat is beginning to bruise, purple peeking above the creamy skin. His face is a minefield, little blotchy bruises and cuts all over.

Spock makes the decision in an instant and picks Kirk up, scooping his arms under his knees and back.

“Ah! What are you doing? I can walk!” Kirk yelps but largely stays still. Spock can tell he’s tired.

“Just stay still, Kirk,” Spock says to him in the tone of an impatient mother.

Kirk is silent for a bit as Spock steps around the bodies of their adversaries. “It’s Jim.”

“What’s Jim?”

Kirk can’t help but bite down his grin – is this protocol? Fuck protocol. People calling him Kirk made him feel like an ass (like he’s being compared to his dad). His head bobs along the up-down-up-down motion of Spock’s steps and he feels dizzy. Maybe he has a concussion. Fuck.

Most of the rooms are likely compromised, so Spock takes him to an empty room with a couple of chairs stacked against the wall. Spock gently sets him on a chair and takes another one to barricade the door. 

“So, what are we going to do? Where’s the big bushy-beard man who’s supposedly the head of all of this?” Kirk wheezes. 

Spock stays silent, lifting Kirk’s pant leg up to look at the wound. It’s mottled, purple and deep red seeping out of the hole. Spock rips a piece of his shirt off (and makes it look easy), wraps it around Kirk’s leg. The furrow of Spock’s brows makes him seem angry – no, upset, almost.

“Shouldn’t we go and tell the big boss right now? Before his right-hand man offs him?” Kirk says in a joking tone. Spock doesn’t relent, staying silent and going over their respective weaponry instead. 

“Jim. You must know that if the righthand’s men are inside the compound, they must be with the head as well. I do not feel confident taking you into that situation,” Spock says, finally. 

“I’m fine. We should go before anything happens,” Kirk retorts.

The door kicks open at that exact moment – the metal backing of the chair crunching into itself as it falls on the floor. 

“Go where?” 

Kirk whips his head around, looking for his pistol. Spock moves faster than him and clutches his own, but refrains from pointing it at the aforementioned man, the right-hand. 

“You men are alright, no? It was just a skirmish. Temporary security problem. It is handled now, but good work,” he grins through his heavy beard.

“Yes, we are adequate. Jim is in need of medical aid,” Spock says with a straight face. Kirk’s eyes move over to his face alarmingly. What is Spock up to? Why isn’t he shooting the bastard? (Not that it really matters to Kirk, everyone in this world is evil – right? Kirk feels like toeing the line between black and white more than ever.)

They manage to discuss the situation inconspicuously with the right-hand, and Kirk gets patched up and delivered back to their room. (With Spock in tow the whole way.) His whole body still hurts, but after popping a couple pain killers it dulls to a pain he can deal with. 

Kirk settles down in his room, mind still struggling to process everything. He has to talk to Spock - there’s too much left unsaid and strategy to talk through. But the first hurdle Spock needs to cross is the question of trustworthiness. 

Despite Spock’s kindness, Kirk still feels reluctant, to plan or plot with the man. There’s a shared camaraderie in being out of the loop on this runaway ploy against Khan, but that doesn’t mean Spock is any better. They’re on the same side, for now. Sulu would kick his ass if he could read his thoughts.

With another swig of whiskey, Kirk steels himself and gets ready to talk. 

“My name – call me Jim. It feels weird to be carried by another person without them knowing my first name,” Kirk says. 

“Alright, Jim. Stay still.” 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of liberties taken here with how spy organizations work, un-beta'd so all my mistakes are my own. Please enjoy - kudos & comments appreciated infinitely!


End file.
